Page 142 of Kingmakers, Year Four

“Yes,” I say. “I do.”

Rafe’s hand tightens in mine.

I know for certain he’s not letting go—no matter what happens.

My father’s men grip their rifles. The Petrovs do the same. The Malina are outnumbered, fourteen to seven. They don’t want to fight. Still, they’ll obey my father to the end.

The Petrovs are longing to kill every last one of them, especially my dad. And maybe he deserves to die. But I’m hoping this one time, we can all walk away.

“It’s over,” I say to my father.

I turn away from him, back toward my friends, back toward the Petrovs, and most of all toward Rafe.

Nothing happens for the space of a heartbeat.

Then my father gives a strangled howl. He rips the knife from his belt, swinging it down.

I turn in slow motion, the arc of my spin intersecting with the trajectory of my father’s knife—the blade plunging directly toward my heart.

Until Rafe lunges between us, turning his shoulder into the knife.

The blade sinks into his flesh. It cuts deep, all the way to the hilt.

Rafe doesn’t even seem to feel it. He’s already pulling his own knife from his belt. He swings it upward, faster than a whip, slashing directly across my father’s throat.

My father gasps.

Before he can move, before he can even begin to bleed, Rafe slashes him again and again and again, cutting him across the belly, through the groin, and backward across his neck, cutting him to pieces like a carcass in a butcher shop.

The cuts are strategic, merciless, and utterly devastating.

There’s no hesitation in Rafe’s face. No regret. I see the man I’ve caught glimpses of before. I see Rafe Petrov unleashed.

My father collapses, spurting blood from a dozen gashes.

I sink to my knees, sobbing, grabbing for his hand.

I lift that hand, heavy as a bear paw, and try to hold it against my face, to feel his rough palm one last time.

My father looks into my eyes.

His teeth clench and he makes a furious, gargling sound, his fingers scrabbling, clutching at my throat. Then those cloudy green eyes roll upward, and his hand falls away from my neck, dropping to the ground.

I look up at Rafe, who killed my father. Who saved my life.

He looks back at me, tall and dark and the calmest I’ve ever seen him.

Silently, he holds out his hand to lift me up.

I don’t know who fires first, or if it’s even intentional. It might have been Stepan Pavluk, who after all is only a bookkeeper, and should never have been brought to this place.

I only hear the pop of a finger convulsing against a trigger, and then I see Leo touch his side, a startled look on his face, blood blooming on his shirt.

Then everyone is firing, and Rafe throws me facedown on the grate, covering me with his body.

The chamber echoes with shots from all directions, heat and noise and bits of hot stone raining down on me, like I’m strapped to a pallet of fireworks all exploding at once.

And then we’re running again, and this time it’s not because we’re being chased—everyone is dead behind us. We’re running to the boat because Leo and Hedeon and Kade are all bleeding badly, and the mine itself is groaning, tunnels still collapsing from the C4 charges detonated by Sloane. The whole thing is about to fall down on our heads.

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